Chapter 8

Carl was not eager to hear Grayson's (probably very reasonable) response to his declaration he'd become Leo's piano instructor, so he did what he did best.

He flashed Leo a wave, jumped off the stage, and ran away.

He came home to folded blankets, a washed teapot and cup, and a note to the end of his note that contained Grayson's number and address. Carl stared at the numbers for a rather long time before he plugged them into his phone under ‘Berhampore's Heartbreaker'. He stared again at the address. What did this mean? Did he want Carl to visit? Or was this for future reference so if Grayson passed out again, he could take him directly home?

Whatever the reason, seeing it sent a sharp shiver through Carl. It was a sign. He'd felt a little silly running away, especially on the heels of how mature Grayson had behaved the evening before. Addressing things with him face-to-face, apologising, generally communicating. And that, while he'd been sick.

Carl really should learn something from that . . .

So, of course, he got himself ready, popped on his jacket, and spent the next few hours taking Toto for a ride.

Grayson's housewas nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac—a pretty brick home with a chimney that was smoking and a stack of firewood along the fence at one side. Emerald green accented the windows and coloured the door. Carl straightened the button-up flannel he'd decided was safe to wear here, and knocked. Nervously.

Grayson opened the door fitted out in the fluffiest grey dressing gown Carl had ever seen. He took a moment to take it all in, from the hood framing the man's face, to his matching bunny slippers.

"Oh my God, you're adorable."

Grayson rolled his eyes and noticed Carl's comfy shirt, lingering on it.

Carl rolled off a wee shiver and lifted the container of soup he was carrying. "I was taught never to show up empty handed."

"Come inside."

He toed off his shoes and followed the grey fluffball down the hall. "You live in a dead end."

"Dead ends are the best. Quiet; peaceful; cosy."

A funny laugh burst out of Carl unprompted, causing Grayson to glance at him over his shoulder with a questioning brow.

Carl cleared his throat. "You won't get it," he said as they emerged into a stainless steel and wood kitchen, "but that is very nice to hear. Where should I put this?"

Grayson gestured to a corner of the bench against the wall, where five full Tupperware boxes were stacked. Carl glanced at his two-person air-tight container and back again. Of course. The groupies. They'd noticed Grayson was sickly at the assembly and got right to work.

Wait. What did this make Carl look like?

He groaned and sagged onto a stool, plopping the container before him. "I don't mean it like they mean it."

"They mean to help me feel better. How do you mean it?"

"Well . . . I mean . . . the same, but—"

Grayson nodded smugly.

"—oh whatever. I slaved away all afternoon and I'm hungry. Let's eat together."

Grayson nodded and went to take Carl's soup but Carl pulled it out of reach. He jerked a thumb towards the other containers. "Heat up one of those."

"I thought you slaved away?"

"I burned it and had to pick out all the charcoal."

"You brought it anyway?"

"The empty-handed thing."

"Such a gentleman."

Grayson gave orders to put out placemats, salt and pepper, water glasses, while he microwaved the soup, ladled it into bowls, and watched Carl like he was holding back comments. Sure enough, when they were at the table breathing in steaming nutrition, Grayson cleared away a cough and pointed his spoon. "Did it feel good up on stage?"

Carl lifted his gaze across the square dining table and sighed. "Truthfully, yes. Being Jason, I felt confident."

"You could've given pretty much the same speech as Carl."

"With what to back me up? I haven't done anything remotely courageous in my life."

"I haven't known you very long, but what I've seen says otherwise. You've a strong sense of justice. You've been helping and sticking up for Leo since you met him." Grayson leaned in. "To the point of becoming his piano instructor. I don't know how you'll pull it off, but I understand why you offered."

Carl swallowed. "You weren't going to tell me off for that?"

"Is that why you ran off?"

"You were shaking your head at me."

"Well, I'm not without concerns. But your motivations were sincere."

"I should've stayed. Those words are pleasantly relieving."

"Have you thought about how you'll teach him?"

"I have a plan. I'll get Jason to follow it when he returns."

"Your poor brother will have many new responsibilities to assume."

"I'll find a way to make it up to him." Carl eyed fluffy Grayson spooning more of his chicken soup. The way he blew on the spoon, carefully slid it into his mouth and gulped softly with a satisfied twitch at his mouth... "The grass is greener, personified."

A blink. "What?"

"This soup is good, but watching you eat it, it looks tastier. I want your bowl."

Grayson curled a protective arm around his soup bowl, blocking Carl's curious and advancing spoon.

"Could you be any more precious?"

"The others call me handsome."

"Have they seen you dressed like a bunny nibbling at soup? I should take a picture."

Grayson wagged his spoon back at Carl. "Don't you dare."

Their spoons collided with a vibrating chink, and then they were sword-fighting and laughing—Grayson between a few coughs—until Grayson retreated and gave in. Carl dunked his spoon into his soup and brought it to his lips. His veins hummed with triumph and Grayson's amused head-shake, the twinkle in his dark eye, had Carl smiling—

"Didn't think you'd be so keen to catch this," Grayson said with an emphasising cough.

". . . You make an excellent point." Carl was about to lower the spoon when he caught an odd, smokey scent. He glanced at the liquid and shot his head up to Grayson. "That is not the same soup." He snagged Grayson's bowl, dragging it over the table to look, to inhale more deeply. "You heated up my soup?"

"I was taught to respect people's effort. Politeness. Turns out"—he grimaced—"I'm really, really polite." Grayson took his bowl back and quietly forced himself to eat more.

"You didn't—don't—have to eat it."

"You looked after me last night."

"That was . . . was . . . social responsibility! Nothing that requires you to sacrifice your tastebuds."

Grayson took another mouthful, staring stubbornly at Carl in a way that had him... hiccupping.

And hiccupping.

In fact—he palmed his chest a few times—he couldn't stop hiccupping. He tried gulping water and, at another jump in his chest, spilled it down his front. Wow, he was on form tonight.

Grayson lifted a tissue from his pocket, started to offer it, looked at it, and scrunched it back into his pocket. "Bathroom's that way."

Carl lunged down the hall into the bathroom and stayed hidden behind its closed door. Look at him. He'd done a number on his flannel too. He undid the buttons and wrung out the water soaked into it. He released his held breath and stared at his reflection in the mirror. "Hiccup again and you never have to face your ex or your mother."

The wish was so strong that, of course, no hiccup came.

He sighed. At least the hiccups were over.

He quickly did up his buttons and snuck out of the bathroom, only to see, in the brighter light of the hallway, that'd he'd messed up the sequence. He fiddled about undoing the buttons again and paused at an open doorway. This must be the master bedroom. The light was off, but he made out a large king bed and some side cabinets, and—what was that painting above the bed?

Curiosity got the better of him. He snuck into the room on light feet, eyes fixed on the dark frame. It was some sort of—

Carl tripped over the upturned lip of a rug. He stumbled forwards, arms flailing as he tried to catch his balance. He reached out to brace against the bed, only to—like a complete muppet—trip over his own foot and fall face-first onto a soft quilt.

"Seriously?" he groaned onto a wedge of pillow. He rolled over and froze at the sight of the painting looming overhead. Who was this Grayson, really? Why did he have a picture like that? Why did he hang it where he slept?!

He stared at the image. A doll-like figure, shrouded in shadows, dancing mechanically—maniacally?—across the canvas like someone pulled at its strings. It was all dark against a darker background—eerily like the endless depth in Grayson's eyes—and like those eyes, it made him shiver.

And shiver again. He wasn't sure what was more horrifying. That creepy painting, or the fact Grayson's footsteps were coming down the hall.

He pushed a hand against the bed in an effort to quickly rise and his wrist gave way, causing him sink onto an elbow. The precise moment at which Grayson stepped into the room and switched on the light.

Carl squinted against the sudden brightness and blinked in Grayson's stock-still, open-mouthed gape. It took only a moment to reconstruct the scene from the point of view of those baffled eyes. There Carl was, his shirt undone, revealing a decent slice of chest and stomach, while lounging provocatively on the master bed. He might at any moment curl a finger or tiger-growl at Grayson to come join him.

Grayson plucked up a bottle of pills from the dresser. "Came for these."

Carl was absolutely beside himself. He was hurriedly buttoning his flannel while glaring heavenward and wagging a mental finger that way. "This isn't what it looks like."

"What does it look like?"

"Like a crazy person snuck into your room and prostrated himself half-naked in the vain hope of seducing you?"

"So you are aware."

Carl shoved himself into a sitting position. "What this actually is..."

"What actually is it?"

"Me giving you serious judgy-eyes. What on earth is this painting above your—"

Carl looked up and stopped.

In the light, the painting was nothing quite so menacing as it'd seemed under shadow. In fact, it wasn't a painting at all, but a large photograph. Of a young boy. Dancing on a stage. And he looked like a younger version of the man staring at him with his eyebrow cocked, awaiting a sufficient explanation.

Carl laughed weakly. "That's you as a kid."

"Ah, so you came in here to look at my childhood photos."

"Is there any way I can come out of this room not looking like I'm desperately in love with you?"

"Don't beat yourself up." Grayson moved to the bed before him. "You're allowed to have feelings." He bent down, a whoosh of air against his jaw, to speak in his ear. "And I'm allowed to not respond to them."

Carl jerked back. "Feelings? Even if I had feelings, I'd have lost them after one look at your photo in the dark!"

"What's wrong with my photo?"

"I know you quite fancy yourself, but is it common to put up enlarged pictures of oneself above one's bed?"

"I like this photo."

"Of course you do."

"I'll never get sick of looking at it."

"It's a bit shocking there's no mirror in this room. On the wall. Above the bed..."

"My mother won a photography competition with that picture."

His mother . . .

God, why did Carl always say the wrong thing? He stuffed a fist against his mouth to stop any more nonsense escaping, cleared his throat, and took in the photo more carefully. "It's... I mean, the form is artistic... There's a special vibe to it, yes."

Grayson folded his arms.

"I'm a terrible person." Carl sank off the bed onto his knees before him, almost bashing his head against... Grayson quickly shot back a foot. Carl winced. "Forgive me," he said. "I invaded your privacy and then had the audacity to get judgemental. This picture is meaningful. Of course you should have it above your bed. Of course it'd never scare the bejesus out of you."

Grayson reached down and helped him to his feet. "I love this picture—"

Carl nodded hard.

"—but it is spooky in the dark."

"Oh, thank God!" Carl whacked him on the fluffy forearm. "You scare yourself sometimes?"

Grayson gave him a warning look not to overdo it, and Carl zipped his mouth shut. "This was taken during a talent show at intermediate school."

"Did you get first prize for freaking people—" Grayson doubled-down on his look and Carl grinned. "You danced."

"Tap. I did it for a few years. Stop smirking."

"Can you still do it?"

Grayson shrugged, which had Carl sidling towards what looked like a closet door. "You've got a pair of silver shoes in here somewhere, don't you?"

Grayson jumped in front of him, barring the way. "I'm sure you had such moments as a kid too."

"Of looking like a creepy puppet dancer? Let me think."

Grayson tapped a sharp knuckle on his forehead and Carl rocked back on his heels, laughing. "Okay, I lost my trunks swimming in a competition once. Are we even?"

"Do you have a photo?"

Carl shook his head.

"We're not even."

Snickering, Carl fished out his phone, set it to selfie mode, took a picture of himself making a face and sent it to Grayson. "There. Laugh at me whenever you want."

Grayson checked the photo and nodded soberly. "Good enough to scare away any prospective partner." A rattling cough dominated the next half minute and Carl grimaced, took Grayson by the elbow and led him to the bathroom.

"Brush your teeth, wash up. You're going to bed."

Carl shut him inside, and while Grayson did his business, prepared a glass of water, some lozenges he found, and optional painkillers. He set this on the bedside, and cheekily checked the closet for those silver tap shoes...

He found a pair atop a photo album, and when he lifted the shoes, curious at their weight, a lone photo fluttered to the floor.

It was a picture of Grayson with his arms wrapped around a dimpled man. And the look Grayson gave the man... that was a look Carl had seen many times before. Whenever Pete gazed at Nick.

Grayson entered the room, and Carl whirled around with a guilty grin. "Saw your tap shoes, and saw that Sam is a Samuel."

"Don't look so gleeful."

"I knew it."

"You hoped it."

"Rubbish." Carl returned the things, closed the closet, and threw back the quilt. "In you hop."

Grayson eyed Carl suspiciously as he followed these instructions. And Carl hung up his dressing gown on a hook behind the door. "By the way, I had an epiphany while you were brushing your teeth."

"An epiphany?"

Carl moved to Grayson and perched beside him on the bed. "We've been through a few ups and downs, you and I. Plus you're the only one who knows my secret. We should be friends."

Grayson scooched away from Carl and those dark eyes were positively obsidian. "What kind of friends?"

"Without benefits!"

Grayson raised a brow.

Carl hurried on, "The kind who hang out for as long as I'm here."

"I don't have huge amounts of free time."

"Let's not get worked up over the details." Carl smiled and reached over for a handshake to seal the deal. "You be kind, and I'll be kind. We'll be kind together."

The handshake thrummed,and Carl still felt it around his fingers the next morning. Like they'd transferred a massive amount of energy—energy that seeped into the rest of him and had him eager to do things. He biked around the bays, and, still bouncing on his heels afterwards, headed for Grayson's. He'd seen the man's calendar; today had been curiously void of commitments.

Grayson opened the door, smartly dressed this time, but in the most depressing grey Carl had seen on him yet. The man's downcast expression didn't help things, either.

"This isn't the best ti—" Grayson stopped abruptly when Carl palmed his forehead.

He didn't feel feverish.

"You don't look great, Gray." Carl pushed him back and only let go of his forehead when they were halfway up the hall. "I'll make you a cup of tea."

Grayson opened his mouth to say something and clapped it shut again. He followed Carl into the kitchen and helped him find things in the cupboards.

Lots of honey went into the tea—the man looked in desperate need of sweetening. He wasn't coughing so much this morning, but there were a few sighs that had Carl thinking he might be having a blue day.

Carl understood the feeling. Hadn't that been him a few nights ago? "Drink this, then would you like to get our feet done? Paint our toenails?"

Grayson spluttered his honey tea and looked over the bench at him.

Carl said, "Colours are fun. They can make you smile when you look at them. Like when you're home alone, before bed, in the shower—times you might feel particularly lonely."

"Is this something you do?"

"Mmm. With my—my real mum. Anyway, we foot spa together, splash on the rainbow, and it literally brightens my mood."

"Your real mum?"

Carl waved that off and hurriedly tipped tea into his mouth. His eye caught on a framed photo that had been placed against the wall at the end of the bench, where the groupies' soups had stood yesterday. He set down his mug, picked up the photo of a dark-haired woman with familiar dark eyes, and stared at it. Glossy waves framed a soft, pale face, and her deep, dark, expressive gaze seemed to capture Carl's even through the photo. Lines of laughter were etched around her eyes and mouth. Carl had seen this mischievous smile on Grayson, too. Undoubtably, this was his mother.

...he doesn't talk about it, but he's been like that since his mother died and he broke up with his ex.

Carl looked over the photo at Grayson staring at the back of the frame, and he set it down gently. "She's beautiful. You look like her."

Grayson picked up the photo. "She liked getting her toes and fingernails done too."

"Did she have a favourite colour?"

"Magenta."

"Tell me about her."

"What are you trying to do, Carl?" Those dark eyes pierced him, and Carl shoved a hand through his hair.

"We're, uh, friends now. You can talk about stuff with me. Purge. Get it all out. I'm the best option, really—soon I'll be gone, so you won't have to feel embarrassed that someone you see all the time knows. Your secrets will stay safe."

Grayson scrubbed his face and breathed deeply into his hands for a few moments before looking up. "Would this be a two-way street?"

Carl sharing his secrets too?

Hadn't he started already? "That sounds... like a good kind of road."

Grayson nodded thoughtfully, stood, and gently towed Carl to the door. "Let me think about it."

The emerald door shut in Carl's face.

Carl frownedand headed down the street and up some stairs to the main road, where very soon he spotted Leo ducking into Over The Raindough. He headed over there himself. Sage was busy with a long line of customers, still smiling, and Carl slouched to the table Leo had nicked for himself.

Almost immediately, Leo asked, "When can we do our first lesson?"

Carl took his time seating himself and clasped his hands together. "Theoretical knowledge of music is foundational. For the first couple of weeks"—as long as Carl was here—"that will be our focus."

"I'm good at theory! Test me, test me. I know everything."

"That took an unexpected turn," Carl mumbled.

"Turn. A sideways S shape symbol above the notes. Means to quickly play the note above the main note, the main note, and the one below it, and back to the main note."

Carl wince-smiled. "Seems theory is your forte."

"Forte, loud. Fortissimo, very loud. Mezzo-forte, moderately loud."

Carl nodded. "A natural."

"A squarish-looking symbol. Put before a note restores any altered sharps or flats to their natural pitch."

Carl decided he should stop opening his mouth, propped his elbow on the table, and clamped his lips shut with his fingers, smiling and nodding at Leo instead.

"Does that mean we can start practicing right away?"

"Leo," Sage said, shaking her finger at him as she crossed to their table with cupcakes. "I told you not to put pressure on him. It's kind enough he offered at all."

Leo sank his head and apologised but Carl hurriedly stopped him. "It's okay, it's okay. Totally no problem."

"Then we'll start tomorrow?" Leo asked brightly. "Have heaps of lessons since it's school holidays now?"

Carl's breath caught in his lungs and his brain blanked. No excuses came to him, and two sets of big eyes were looking at him hopefully, waiting.

"Of course!" he blurted. "Yes. Tomorrow morning sound okay?"

"You're the bestest, Jason. The best."

"Not as good as these cupcakes." Carl stuffed one into his mouth before his face filled with fret.

"I'll have Leo bring some more tomorrow. I gotta get back behind the counter. Jason, let's talk later."

She left, and half an hour later, so did Carl. He moped around Berhampore and was about to head home when he glimpsed Grayson turning onto the city-to-sea walkway. Spotting him wasn't unusual—he was used to seeing Grayson at any possible point during the day now—but the massive bouquet he carried was. Carl snuck from tree shadow to tree shadow, following sneakily up the hill, past the outcrop where Carl had tumbled, to a craggy sprawling tree amongst long grass. At this tree, Grayson knelt and laid out his flowers. He bowed his head, and Carl swallowed thickly. Suddenly, the framed photo on the bench and the unusual free space in Grayson's calendar made sense.

Carl stayed a few shadows behind and bowed his head too. He waited in silent respect for a few minutes, before slinking away quietly.

"Stay," Grayson called. "I know you're there."

Carl shrank back to the sap-seeping tree trunk and waited guiltily while Grayson swiped his eyes with his sleeve, squared his shoulders, and approached.

"I'm sorry," Carl said.

"For following me? Or for"—Grayson glanced heavily towards the gnarly tree and the bouquet, and Carl's chest banged about painfully. He hauled Grayson into a hug and held him tight, as tight as Grayson had held him two nights before. Grayson didn't resist. He sagged into the hold, chest heaving rapidly as he struggled against a sob. Carl rubbed circles over his back, and kept rubbing them even when Grayson's warm breaths against Carl's neck had evened.

Grayson withdrew from the hug and pulled himself tight, together, in control—almost. His body might seem proud and straight, but eyes were the windows to the soul, and Grayson's were devastated.

"Do you want . . . space?" Carl asked quietly.

Grayson shook his head and his voice cracked. "Sit with me for a bit."

They sank to the base of a tree and stared towards the gnarly one and the bouquet. "This was her favourite spot to bring me to play when I was a kid."

Carl tensed. Was Grayson accepting his offer to purge his secrets? He swallowed a fluttery feeling and murmured, "All the way up here?"

"I had a lot of energy. The hill helped get rid of some of it."

"Clever."

"She was. Back then, we were so close."

Carl faced Grayson's sigh and felt a sympathetic one of his own bubble in his chest.

"Then I grew up. Moved away. Met someone. Mum kept asking me to drive down and visit, and I barely did. Then one day she called asking for help with a wasp nest in her back garden. I didn't really want to make a long trip to do it and offered to pay for her to get someone to come, but she refused. She tried getting rid of it herself and fell from the ladder." Grayson's face crunched towards a sob and his voice thickened. "She died before I could get to the hospital."

Carl wound an arm around Grayson, and Grayson dropped his head on his shoulder for a few struggling breaths. "She asked for help, and I wasn't there."

Carl whispered, "A tragic accident."

"She'd still be alive if I'd come."

Carl's throat hurt, and he shook his head even though Grayson couldn't see it. "It's not your fault."

Was this why Grayson took up every odd job asked of him by the community? As penance for not helping his mum? Hoping his help might save others in future, like he'd saved Carl that night at the cliff?

Was this why Grayson worked most hours of the day? To keep himself busy so he wouldn't feel so guilty?

"You are not to blame."

A gulp. "Sam tried to comfort me after it happened, but I didn't feel I deserved that love. I made the decision to break up and move back here, and my heart hasn't functioned properly since. People keep offering theirs to me, and I'm not immune to the rush of that attention, but I'm allergic to accepting it. So I go on and break their hearts with silly smiles or jokes or tease them for becoming my groupie."

This poor man. How long could he keep torturing himself like this? Carl's hand moved of its own accord and tapped Grayson's chest, over his fractured heart. "Wouldn't your mum be sad seeing you like this?"

Grayson shifted and sat upright. "Wouldn't she be happy seeing me help those who need it? Being there for her friends in the community?"

"If I were a parent, watching my child from above, I'd weep."

"Why?"

"The best thing in life is to love and be loved. And as a parent, I'd want the best for my kids. So if she saw that you couldn't love or be loved... wouldn't that make her the most devastated?"

Grayson tipped his head back against the tree trunk and his Adam's apple bobbed. "You think I've been dealing with this wrong?"

"Who am I to say? I ran away from home." Carl stood up, dusted himself. "Moving on from heartbreak... it's a journey." He gazed at Grayson's upturned profile and offered him a hand. "We're on the same road. How about we walk it together for a while?"

Grayson eyed Carl's hand for a few hesitant seconds before he gripped it and let himself be pulled to his feet. Hands locked together, he looked dubiously into Carl's eyes. "What exactly does that involve?"

Carl tugged Grayson close. "Scared I'll kiss you?"

"Yes."

That spurred a gentle snicker from Carl. "If I ever—God forbid—become besotted, you go right ahead and slap me out of it."

"I break hearts, not faces."

"All right, all right. I'll slap myself silly. Come along, we've something important to do."

"What's that?"

"Colouring our toes."